Chapter 3 

Orphaned 

Theme Song:  How Can I Help You Say Goodbye, Patty Loveless 

I got the call the morning of March 15th, 1999, at my desk in our small office. Cindy and Mike were both on the line, and I could picture them in Mom’s house, one on the kitchen phone, the other in the living room.

“Hi, sweetie.”

“Hi, honey.”

Both of my oldest siblings’ voices were tired and gravelly, each trying to take on a comforting, 

parental tone. 

“Mom’s going. They don’t think she has much time.” 

“Penny says it would be a good idea to come as soon as you can.” Penny was the hospice nurse. 

“We’re all here with her. Father Tom is coming to the house tonight.”  

“They are keeping her comfortable.”  

“Let us know when you have a plan.”  

“Someone will be there to pick you up.”  

“Love you.” 

“Love you.” 

“Love you too, I’ll call you back when I have a flight number.” My voice was quiet and hollow. I was as unprepared for that phone call as anything I’d faced before. Mom was ready to go, and I was two thousand miles away from home.

Two weeks prior, I had been in Eugene to throw Suzanne’s bridal shower at the Valley River Inn and celebrate Mom’s seventieth birthday. She wasn’t well by any means, but I had no idea it was the last time my sisters and I would sit with her in her cozy living room, celebrating her March birthday with colorful gifts that rushed to usher in spring. Her diagnosis of breast cancer had been just a year before that. She’d had a mastectomy, not because she wanted it as much as she knew some of us needed her to have it, then proceeded with radiation treatments, but they were no match for stage four cancer, and it quickly spread to her bones.

Mom never wanted to be an old person or a sick person to be taken care of by her children, and she wasn’t for very long. After working several Mother’s Day brunches and dinners at the restaurant and seeing elderly grandmothers in what she deemed undignified states, she would tell us in no uncertain terms, “Do not teeter me out to brunch in my bathrobe.” We would chuckle and roll our eyes. “Okay, Mom. We’ll see about that.” Sometimes I would be so bold as to say that I thought some of those women might be happy to be out to a nice meal. And I highly doubted any were actually in their bathrobes. She couldn’t bear the thought of being a burden and, as she wished, only required care for a relatively short time. Cindy and her husband, Randy, had moved in with her for the last several months, much to my relief.

I was sobbing uncontrollably as I hung up the phone, nearly paralyzed by the news. Teresa asked if she could give me a hug, and I let her. Bob, who’d heard my end of the conversation from his desk across the room, sprang into action and booked a flight for that evening, making sure I got the bereavement fare. Then he took me home to pack and drove me to O’Hare. When I say he “sprang”, I’m not exaggerating. That was his physical response in a crisis; all action. I didn’t have to do anything but get through security and board the plane a few hours later, which would take me to Portland, then after a short layover, on to Eugene. He would meet me there when he could. Our business was in its infancy and growing like crazy, so it was not reasonable for us both to go, especially not knowing how long the trip would be. He parked in Departures, dragged my bags over to the nearest skycap, then hugged me and drove away with teary eyes, hating to leave me on my own and sad to know he wouldn’t see Mom again before she passed. 

As grace would have it, the flight was not full. I was seated in the middle seat next to a business traveler who kindly moved rows as soon as it was deemed safe to move around the cabin and left me to my silent sobbing. I was never so grateful to have all three seats to myself. Once I settled in, I put on my noise-canceling headphones and searched for music I could tolerate. The in-flight radio station was featuring the popular pianist, Jim Brickman’s, newest album, Destiny, and it was perfect. Super mellow and comforting — nothing upbeat or edgy, just soothing music, something my mom would enjoy and approve of as well. It allowed me to sink into my seat and reflect on the night sky, ignoring everything else around me. I was trying desperately to feel some connection with the great beyond when I heard a song that has stayed with me since. Whenever I think of that night and that flight, I think of the bonus track on the album, sung by Pam Tillis, called What We Believe In. I had never heard it before, and it was no accident that it came to me that night. Here is the chorus:
 

“But if love is what we believe in 

I'll see you in heaven's first bright star

If seeing is believing 

I look into the skies and there you are 

You're not that far 

'Cause love is what we believe in.” 

What We Believe In, Songwriters: Tom Douglas / Jim Brickman 
 

Right? I know. That gentleman knew what he was doing when he moved seats because by the time I got to the end of that song, staring out into the dark, starry sky, I had crumpled into a bawling mess. A world without my mom was the darkest void I could imagine, but I tried to hold on to all she had taught me and the faith she had instilled as I lost myself in the stars.
 

The first funeral I remember was my Grandpa Martin’s at Saint Paul's Catholic Church in Silverton, Oregon, the small town my mom grew up in just outside Salem. I was five years old. It was an open-casket service, and my grandpa lay in his best suit: a white dress shirt, tie, and polished black dress shoes. It's not a traumatic memory for me, just a sad one. My relatives all remarked on how peaceful he looked and would touch or even kiss his face as they stopped to pay their respects in the customary procession. I most certainly did neither, but my mom told me to say a little prayer and tell him goodbye, so that’s what I did as I held her hand and walked up to Grandpa’s casket in front of the altar, seeing his body but not his spark. 
 

Grandpa was one of my favorite people. I don’t remember much before age seven, but I remember him clearly. He was tall and thin, a little frail but confident in his stature, with lovely grey, almost white hair, bushy eyebrows, and a quintessential Irishman’s smiling twinkle in his eyes. He smelled like peppermint and aftershave, just the way a grandpa should smell. In his mid-eighties, he was spry enough to get in his car and drive just over an hour from his house to ours in Eugene and surprise my mom and me for breakfast after my siblings and dad had already gone to school and work. My mom was as light and happy in his presence as I ever saw her, and we’d laugh and talk as she fed us our favorite hot cereal, Cream of Wheat, with milk and sugar. She was very close to her dad. They shared gentle temperaments, dry humor, and a love for playing the same instrument, though to Mom it was a violin and to Grandpa, a fiddle. 

The first time I remember feeling my mom’s sadness was when she lost her dad. I was only a year old when her mom, Ilah, passed, and when I got older, I came to realize her relationship with her mom was complicated, as many are. She never went into details, just talked about how her mom was often ill. Reading between the lines and discussing it in later years with Cindy, I translated that to mean emotionally unavailable and maybe a little cold. There is no doubt my grandma suffered greatly in her life, not only with physical illness but with the loss of her daughter, Patricia, who succumbed to polio at age six, when my mom was a baby. Two of her other five children, my mom and aunt Rowena, were also affected by the disease, my mom with a club foot and Rowena with severe deformities in her legs. I can only imagine the toll that burying a child and having the other two in and out of the hospital for multiple surgeries would take. It’s safe to say the undiagnosed depression that ran in the family set in hard in later years. As a result, Mom clearly felt more of an alliance with her dad and loved and trusted him more than anyone. His passing hit her hard. 

Though she was stoic in nature, Mom didn’t push her grief away or hide it from us. She always made a teaching moment out of death and loss, and with our large, extended family (I’m the youngest of 37 first cousins on my mom's and dad’s sides), we had many lessons over the years. Off the top of my head, I can think of at least nine funerals I attended before reaching adulthood, and I’m sure I’m missing some. While most were elderly or ill grandparents or other family members, there were tragic exceptions. A cousin who was a father to very young children and the teenage daughter of my oldest cousin were both in car accidents. I remember staying at another cousin’s house in Silverton with all the young cousins while the rest of my family attended the service for Becky. It wasn’t the norm for the children to stay behind, but this was an especially traumatic event. I was ten and her passing seemed impossible to me, not only because she was such a vibrant personality, but because she was the same age as my brother, Billy.

With each passing, Mom would pull my sister Suzanne and me into her bedroom, having told the older kids separately. We would sit on her bed as she calmly told us what happened and who we had lost. She would tell us it was okay for us to feel sad and cry as tears ran down her face, but not to feel bad if we didn’t feel like it. She would emphasize her strong belief in the afterlife and say that it was we who would be feeling the sadness because we miss them, but they were at peace, and their bodies were free from pain. Though she was emotional, she always spoke with unwavering faith and authority. The only time her devastation was jarring to me was when it came to the passing of her nephew and her great-niece. A life cut short brings a depth of grief that is impossible to pacify.
 

My cousin Larry’s funeral made a significant impact on me. Being present and observing his immediate family members and close friends, all in the prime years of their lives, demonstrating that though you are devastated and distraught, you can also celebrate the life of the person you mourn, was profoundly reassuring. You can sing, laugh, and hold tighter to those who remain. The raw emotion I witnessed as a nine-year-old made me deeply uncomfortable, but I am forever grateful I was there. Whenever I hear the song “Feels So Good” by Chuck Mangione, I am back in Silverton at St. Paul’s church, watching my many cousins, aunts, and uncles smiling and swaying through their tears as they held on to each other; their happiest memories of him carried through the music. 
 

I have an enormous appreciation for the way my parents, especially my mom, handled the subject of grief and loss with us. When young children who attend funerals and witness grief are not guided thoughtfully through the process, it can be a frightening experience. They know something terrible has happened and that their parents and others around them are very sad, but nobody will talk about it. Perhaps they even get scolded if they mention it themselves. Or, more often, parents try to shield their child entirely from the loss of friends or extended family members. They consider them too young to attend memorial services and try to distract them from any discussions about the deceased. It’s well-intentioned, but, in my opinion, it’s a missed opportunity to show them that death doesn’t have to be such a scary thing, that sadness over loss is natural, and that, most importantly, they are there to help them through it. Kids, by age five or six, aren’t nearly as oblivious as we think. In trying to protect them, we risk instilling more fear around what they will inevitably grow to consider a taboo subject. 
 

After Dad passed, Mom made sure we remembered and celebrated him every chance we got. On the first anniversary, she insisted on having my five siblings and me join her at his graveside, then spend the rest of the day together. We irreverently deemed it “Dead Dad’s Day” and shared some groans and eye rolls, but she was right to make it happen. There were at least a few times over the following decade that she gathered my nieces and nephews at her house on January 24 to celebrate Grandpa’s birthday with lunch and cake, giving them a chance to celebrate him too. 
 

Mom’s faith was her superpower. She had unwavering confidence in her relationship with God, which went way beyond the confines of her religion. Especially as she got older, she didn’t allow clergy to interfere with their typical messages of fear or guilt. She loved and revered most of the priests and nuns she knew throughout her life, but she saw them as fellow humans, as fallible as the rest of us. Mom had a NDE (near-death experience) as a child when she was in Shriners’ hospital for one of her club foot surgeries. She never talked about it to me; I only found out from Cindy after she passed. It explained her lack of fear and her extraordinary gift when it came to the subject of death. She was shown that our souls live on in a peaceful place. That said, she was mournful with every loss. Grief is for the living, and no matter how convinced we become of an afterlife, it only affects an aspect of it, which is knowing our people are okay and we will likely be reunited one day. 
 

As I deplaned at Mahlon Sweet Field Airport in Eugene, I was met by Mike, Pat, and Billy. I still tear up thinking about it. It’s moments like that, if you’re lucky enough to have family you love, that make all the drama that goes with it worth it. I felt really taken care of in that moment; they didn’t all have to come. My brothers drove me to our childhood home where the rest of the family was with my mom, awaiting my arrival. On the way, they told me the priest had been there to give her the last rites, and they sang some hymns she enjoyed, but that had been hours ago, and she hadn’t spoken since. Penny did not expect her to come out of the very confused state she was in from her pain and the morphine that was keeping her comfortable. My brothers warned me she probably wouldn’t know me, but they were all so glad I was there and assured me she’d be able to feel my presence. I could tell they were nervous about me seeing her. 

After a long line of hugs, I went down to my mom’s bedroom and sat in the chair someone had placed next to her bed. Her eyes were closed, yet there was a lot of expression on her face. At times throughout the rest of the night, we were sure she was communicating with the other side. She would be super agitated, then suddenly sigh happily and break out into a grin that seemed like recognition, never opening her eyes. It was similar to years later, watching my babies clearly talking and responding with their expressions to someone or something we couldn’t see. I reached out for her hand and held it in mine, feeling familiar warmth and delicate skin. I was in disbelief, having arrived at the moment I had to tell her goodbye. My sister, Cindy, was in the room with me and maybe another sibling, but I can’t remember. I don’t know how long I sat there before she said my name. I don’t think it was more than a few minutes. She opened her eyes and looked right into mine. “Molly,” she said. She then closed her eyes and never spoke another intelligible word. My siblings were surprised that she recognized me and spoke, but I really wasn’t. She always gave me what I needed, and that night, I gave her what she needed. I was home, and she could go. 

The remainder of that night and into the next morning was a bizarre scene of two or three of us sitting with her, often on the bed, having to make sure she didn’t throw herself off because she was thrashing around and babbling. She was completely incoherent and, at one point, Pat, Cindy, and I broke down in hysterical laughter over our ever-dignified mom acting in a manner which  would have horrified her. The line between tears and laughter is paper-thin at times like that; the emotion just must be released. It was a long night trying to manage her pain and keep her comfortable before Penny arrived early the next morning. 
 

Hospice workers are angels on earth. Mom was determined not to pass in the hospital, and without hospice care, she wouldn’t have had that choice. Not long after she arrived, Penny could tell it was time to say our goodbyes. As we had with our dad, nearly ten years earlier, we held hands around her bed and said The Lord’s Prayer. When she passed, her face revealed peace in her transition, and we were all a total mess. 
 

Walking out of that bedroom was as horrible as I’d ever felt in my life to that point. I was heartbroken to see that my oldest niece, Sara, had arrived while we were all in the room and was sitting, sobbing in the family room by herself. She had been unable to stay in school, knowing her Grandma Betty was so ill, and drove herself over. We immediately took her into our fold, then proceeded to make phone calls to loved ones who weren’t there. I was outside, chain- smoking cigarettes with Cindy, when the undertakers came to take my mom’s body; a surreal image of seeing them pass by the windows carrying her is burned in my brain. 
 

Having been up all night, it wasn’t long before I went and lay down in my childhood bedroom. It had been stripped of the U2 posters, Vogue magazine collages, and Holly Hobbie wood plaques that once adorned the walls, and it felt bleak and cold on the dreary March day.
 

No one outside my family knew yet that Mom had passed, and I wasn’t ready to reach out to any of my close friends. Partly because it made it too real, but mostly, if I’m honest, because none of them would be able to relate to my grief in their wealth of two living parents. I felt a protective and selfish need to keep it for myself as long as possible. In retrospect, I think that was kind of healthy. I knew it wouldn’t last long before I felt compelled to take care of others and make them feel better about my loss. As I lay there, still in shock and utterly exhausted, I was surprised to realize that an almost thirty-year-old could feel totally orphaned. 

Mom passed on Tuesday, and the next few days were busy planning for her funeral on Saturday of that same week. Father Tom came to the house to plan the mass with all of us, which was simple because we all knew what Mom wanted; she had pretty much planned it for us. Mike and Cindy handled the funeral home arrangements, Pat, Billy, and Suzanne planned and rehearsed the music, and I got to work poring through the photo albums. I decided I was in no shape to sing or do a reading like the rest of them. My contribution was to create a big picture collage for the reception after the funeral.  

Cindy and I probably shouldn’t have been allowed to leave the house unsupervised, but we had two clear missions. The first was finding proper attire for the funeral. We were in no shape for shopping, but we headed straight to Kaufman’s, Mom’s favorite clothing store, and each found dresses we actually liked. Mine was cornflower blue, I think. Or I might be confusing it with the dress I wore to Sue and Pete’s wedding a month later. In any case, mission accomplished. We  said, “Oh, thanks, Mom, for making this easy on us!” and proceeded to what should have been the easier task. 
 

I needed to find a large poster board for the photo collage, so we went to Michael’s Craft Store, which immediately overwhelmed Cindy, who avoids crafts and their stores at all costs. We decided to try Target with no luck there either, so we found ourselves headed to Walmart. Once we arrived, dazed from the events of the day, not to mention the week, we were completely out of our element in the unfamiliar superstore, and I was reminded of the only other time I’d been in a Walmart. I started to tell Cindy about going to one in Miami after Glen passed. After getting settled and meeting the long-lost relatives, Metze asked us to go with her to pick out Glen’s burial clothes. Bob and I felt like we were in a dark comedy, shopping at the South Florida Walmart with his stepmom, three adult brothers, and sister-in-law picking out clothes for their deceased father. I don’t recall the details of the clothing, but I do remember a conversation about socks and underwear that just about sent Bob and me over the edge. As I told the story, Cindy and I started laughing so hard walking down the center aisle of the store that I spat out my gum, and it catapulted onto the floor. As you can imagine, that led to full-blown, hunched-over, cry- laughing, and we had no choice but to leave with no poster board.  
 

Mom was not on our side for that mission. She never stepped foot into a Walmart and, we declared, she wouldn’t be caught dead in one, as we unsuccessfully tried to compose ourselves in the car. No offense to Walmart. She was never wealthy, but Mom was a snob about shopping and restaurants, although she did enjoy a McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish. I am very much her daughter in that way. Perhaps I’ve never given it a proper chance, but my associating it with funerals doesn’t help.

I can’t remember where we found the poster board, only that we finally did, and the collage turned out to be a lovely tribute. What I do remember was having one of the most hilarious days ever with my sister in the wake of our grief. And that is saying a lot because Cindy and I have had more than our fair share of hilarious days together. 
 

My clearest memory from the day of Mom’s funeral was greeting people outside St. Paul’s Church. I felt oddly strong and assertive, qualities I currently claim on occasion, but were totally foreign to me then. I’ve found throughout my life that grace has provided me with tools to get through unimaginably painful days, beginning with my dad’s funeral when I was able to stand with my brothers and sisters to sing Dan Fogelberg’s “Leader of the Band” in front of a standing- room-only crowded church. As I stood there exchanging pleasantries and accepting hugs and condolences, Mom’s close cousins Jack and Mike arrived with their wives, Dee and Ginger. They had to stop and do a double-take when they saw me, and one of them exclaimed, “Oh, honey, you look just like your beautiful mom.” I felt a rush of pride and gratitude that bolstered me even more for the challenging day. 
 

Sometimes I felt guilty for the relationship I had with my mom. We certainly had our moments, but compared to my friends and even my sisters, it was so easy. I think having me at forty made her so much more relaxed, and let’s face it, I was a pretty delightful kid. We genuinely enjoyed each other’s company and continued to talk every day after I moved out of Eugene. I always needed to hear her voice and have her guidance. The trade-off was only having twenty-nine years and ten months with her. Although our time was too short, she laid the groundwork that would help make sense of my entire life. The lessons she taught me allowed me to cope, not only with losing my dad and her, but with events to come that I only survived because of the faith and optimism she instilled in me.